In The Dark
by Child of Loki
Summary: Emily Prentiss discovers that she's been kept in the dark. And the truth is not only not pretty, but potentially deadly. Sort of Emily/OC in a very twisted way.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds or its characters...  
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**Author's note: I had written this quite a while ago (apparently, over six months ago), but never posted it for some reason. Perhaps, because it's primarily an indulgence into my own tendency for exploration of the dark and angsty, as well as torturing characters.**

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Everything had seemed to be going so well...

She should have known. And not only because she was a member of the illustrious Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI, and supposedly possessing of honed observational skill. No, she wasn't even angry that she hadn't seen through him. It was the fact that nothing in the universe would ever allow her life to go that well. And she should have known better.

"Don't look so crushed, Emily."

He smiled that damn endearing, deceptively ingenuous smile of his. A delicate dimple formed in the side of his cheek, the same little trait that first drew her to him. Why hadn't she known better? Some random electrician her building super had hired-incredibly cute, extremely polite and funny-had asked her out, had been everything she had given up on finding.

She glared hatefully at him, struggling against the ropes binding her wrists to the arms of the chair. Taking a step back, he threw his hands up in mock hurt.

"Whoa," he responded, chuckling in the lighthearted manner she had grown to love but apparently was all a lie. It was genuinely the most well-crafted cover she had ever encountered, prohibiting even the faintest glimpse of his dark soul from being revealed. Or had she been too blinded by her desperate desire to bond with another human being?

"There's someone I want you to meet," he announced, giving her a wink that sent chills down her spine for its utter innocuousness. And then he disappeared through the heavy wooden door, leaving her alone in the small, dark and musty room. The walls appeared to be stone... perhaps a cellar?

Emily Prentiss tried to push aside her self-loathing, clear her head and do what she was trained to do...analyze. Who was this man? Obviously not the 'Nicolas Doyle' she thought she had known, had begun to... Oh, she felt ill.

The door creaked before it opened, alerting her enough that her heart quickened its pace but didn't leap into her throat. And then his gentle, smiling face returned. It was so difficult to wrap her mind around it all. There was no further need for pretense, so why hadn't he dropped that innocent, tender manner of his? Unless... Emily swallowed hard. He hadn't gotten down to business yet. He was still playing with her.

The bottom of her stomach dropped when she saw the pathetic thing that followed him into the poorly lit dungeon. It was a woman...or at least had been at some point. From what Emily could make out, she had pretty features, was well kempt. But everything about her, her downcast eyes, slumped shoulders, the way she cowered at his feet... Emily knew that if the woman could even be persuaded to raise her eyes so she could see them, what they contained would haunt her forever. The poor thing was beyond broken.

"What did you do to her, Nick?" Emily turned dark, accusing eyes upon the face that had been her comfort, her solace on the bad days for the last six months. How did she miss the monster beneath?!

He clicked his tongue, lopsided, boyish grin gracing his attractive features.

"Wouldn't want to ruin the surprise, now would we?" he scolded playfully.

Emily winced for the woman who didn't even flinch when strong fingers twisted amongst the pale locks of hair. And then a shimmer of light drew her eyes from the victim's submissive form to something far more sinister and threatening. Still surrounded by his aura of 'good little boy', Nick brandished the blade like it was some sort of game, like he was trying to impress her with his possession of such a toy.

There was nothing short of the apocalypse that could tear her eyes from the razor-edged kitchen knife as it slowly made its way closer and closer to the helpless woman. A slight tug on the mangles of hair, and the docile victim willingly exposed her throat to him.

Special Agent Emily Prentiss had often witnessed the aftermath of far too many acts like the one imminent before her eyes, but rarely had she actually seen the brutal, horrifying execution of such violence. There was no desire in her to fuel the vivid nightmares she suffered. There was even less to see another life taken, although there obviously wasn't much left in the destroyed creature.

"Say 'goodbye' to Emily, Sara," Nick commanded.

"Don't do this," the impotent agent pleaded, vastly overwhelming the faint utterance by sorrowful Sara.

And then Emily screamed. All her training, the years of repressing emotions in the line of duty, and she screamed. Maybe it was for the woman who did not. Maybe it was for herself. Maybe it was _at_ herself. No matter the reason, she did, closing her mouth only after blood splattered across her face, soiling her tongue.

Nick's reaction was neither one of shock nor pleasure over her outburst. A piece of information she logged away for later analysis when she had the presence of mind to consider it.

"Normally, I'd have the new girl clean up the mess left behind by the old one," Nick shared matter-of-factly. He smiled like they were sharing an inside joke. "But not you, darling. It's different with you."

When he leaned in close, she was so angry and disgusted that she tried desperately to will him away by squeezing her eyes shut. Then her nose twitched, detecting the scent that had imprinted on her brain, and involuntarily she was flooded with pleasurable associations.

"You're my special girl," he whispered in her ear, causing her to bite back tears. That first night they spent together, those precise words he had uttered quietly into her neck. She had teased him about how it sounded like he had other girls, knowing with all her heart it wasn't the case. But there _had _been another girl, hadn't there? His victim. How many times had he gone straight from torturing Sara to her own oblivious arms? How many other girls had there been before Sara? She obviously hadn't been the first throat Nick had slashed ear to ear without an iota of hesitation.

Bile bit at the back of Emily's throat as a gentle hand caressed her cheek and familiar lips sought hers. She returned the kiss willingly, wary of angering him and perhaps partially deluding herself into wishing everything was how it seemed to be even just a few hours ago.

Bending over, Nick grabbed the limp arms of the murdered Sara and proceeded to drag her through the door. Looking back over his shoulder he gave her that goddamn charming grin that she had loved, that she now despised.

"I'll be back, darling. Just sit tight."

Like she had a choice...

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**A/N: There is a bit more already written, but beyond that… I'd probably need encouragement to pick it up again. ;-)  
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	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: This was written at the same time as the first bit, and for some reason is where I left off all that time ago.**

**Spoilers/timeline: Besides a minor reference to _A Shade of Gray_, none. Takes place around season 4? Since I think those were the episodes I was watching when I wrote this.

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"Nick, what are you doing?" she asked emphatically, having composed herself from the trauma of witnessing her former-lover murder a woman in cold blood. If she wanted to get out of this, not to mention stop his serial spree of kidnappings and murders, she needed to do her job.

"Talk to me, please," she tried in her most benign tone. "I want to understand."

He chuckled. Always in such a good humor. Was it all a facade? It just had to be. To commit such horrors, he either had to be filled with pain and turmoil, or empty of all human feeling. It was hard for her to confirm either. Nothing she had seen in him during all the time they spent together had indicated either condition. However, slitting Sara's throat hadn't appeared to affect him in the least.

"So smart, you are, Emily," he observed admiringly. "I can see the gears grinding away in that pretty head of yours. Trying to figure it out... Did I suffer some sort of horrible trauma, was mommy abusive, do I get off on it? Hate to disappoint, but my childhood was picture-perfect. Guess I'm just one of mother nature's little aberrations..."

"A natural born sociopath," Emily supplied, trying to figure out a way into his head, to talk him down. Of all the variants of criminal psychologies, he _would _possess the most impossible to manipulate. "Not as rare as you think."

"Oh, you've met others?"

"Unfortunately." She knew it wasn't wise to get sarcastic, but for some reason he was treating her differently than the rest of his victims. And all she could figure was that there was something about her that instigated his break in pattern. He didn't appear to be escalating, hadn't really done anything _to her _beyond kidnapping. But she knew all too well her failure to read him correctly. All she could do was be herself, for it had set her apart in some way in his mind. "Last sociopath I encountered was a little boy, from a loving family. He murdered his younger brother over a toy."

"Sounds like he has some anger issues," Nick pointed out conversationally, producing a water bottle and holding it to her lips. She accepted the drink, not knowing when-or if-she'd be offered more. Suppressing her fury, she took the opportunity of his proximity to catch his eyes. Desperately she searched their blue depths for any revealing trace of his thoughts, emotions. They had always been so expressive with her, lighting up in a way that mirrored her own emotional high from enjoying his company. It was almost certain she wouldn't find that false affection now, but maybe the sinister aspect of his nature would be unshielded. Or maybe she could find a glimpse of remorse, suffering, anything to prove that he was human.

"Mm," he murmured appreciatively, shaking his head and taking a step back. "There are few things as fetching as a bruised ego on a beautiful angel."

She couldn't stop her brow from twitching at the comment. Never before had a murderer so completely baffled her. He seemed to actually enjoy her. Perhaps, he got the same thrill out of playing with her mind as he did inflicting physical pain upon his victims.

"Try all you might, darling, you ain't gonna get anywhere unless I spell it out for you."

Her failure to grasp his motives was most definitely pleasing to his ego. There was no question about that. But there was so much more to the man that it overwhelmed, frustrated and most of all, angered her. Everything he had said, had appeared to feel, the emotions he had elicited in her... Had it really all been a flawlessly constructed manipulation?

Apparently, the accent hadn't been a lie. In fact, the Texan tilt to his drawl had intensified since he had dropped the pretense. She had been wary at first-blame her own prejudices-about dating a 'southern boy', but he had met none of the negative stereotypes. _Unless 'egomaniacal sociopath' is a legitimate descriptor of Texans..._

"You're a smart man, Nick. And you know who I work for," She attempted to appeal to his obvious intelligence. "They're good at what they do, and they're probably already looking for me. If you just let-"

"_Let you go?_" he asked back mockingly. "I don't think that'll be happening."

"I don't want to see you hurt." Maybe it wasn't the best tactic. If he resented what he considered to be soft emotions, her compassion might come across as a weakness. Then again, it might play to his sense of superiority.

His expression was unreadable, so she hazarded continuing the approach.

"My friends won't rest until they've found me. And I can't guarantee everything will turn out alright."

"You really don't get it, do you?" he said, a strange intensity in his eyes that she hadn't seen since before she woke up in the dark place. Those crystal blues whose sparkle she had so adored had remained flat even through killing his previous victim, an act that should've been an emotional high for such a twisted person.

Crouching down, leveling his face with hers, he pinned her with an appraising stare. It was all she could do not to squirm in place, for she knew her thoughts were as naked and exposed to him as his were obscured from her.

"Emily, I've never..." Another inconsistency. He was intelligent, rather eloquent, even in the fictitious personage he had shown her. His brow twitched and he appeared to be struggling to align his thoughts.

"I've never _felt_ this way before," he said softly, failing to meet her eyes. How was it possible? Everything she had seen in that dark place, his own admission had indicated a sociopathic nature. Yet, here he was, obviously stirred by some unfamiliar emotion.

"You..."

He looked at her.

It hadn't been a lie. He had succeeded in hiding elements of himself from her because there was some truth in what he _had _shown her. She wasn't the complete idiot she had berated herself for being. That look he had given her, the way he had touched her...

"You love me?!" she asked in disbelief. Men-no, _monsters_ like him, they didn't love anyone. They _couldn't_ love anyone. Something was broken, something didn't work quite right in their brain. But whatever the reason, a statistical improbability was staring her in the face.

"I think so," he admitted, looking more confused than vulnerable, but definitely a change from the cold creature that had slit a woman's throat before her eyes.

"Then why do _this_?" she asked, tugging at her bindings indicatively. Was he going to eliminate the source of his consternation, that which set his world awry?

"I'm doing it for _you_, darling," he replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Desperately, she wanted to point out the gaping flaw in his reasoning, to ask him how he thought taking her by force and keeping her tied up and locked away would succeed, end in any other way except one or both of their deaths? But if he was capable of love, then he was capable of becoming enraged over rejection.

"I appreciate that, Nick," she opted for hopefully subtle placation instead. "And I _want_ us to be together, I really do... but not like this."

She drew his attention to the ropes holding her rather securely to the chair, and gave him an affectionate, slightly pleading look.

He stood up, beaming at her like he did when they had flirted over dinners.

"God love you, you _are_ clever," he commented, appreciation edging his voice.

"Let's hope it keeps..." he added before once more leaving her alone in the dark to mull over their encounter, her skin turning to gooseflesh despite the temperate air.

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**A/N: Is this worth continuing? I know what happens next (at least in my head, so it's not vital for me to finish writing it, I guess).**

**A/N 2: Oops...forgot, I also borrowed a line from one of my favourite film-makers. Can you find it?  
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